


You Could Call It a Bond

by TheNarcolepticOne



Series: DailyUSUK [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Police, prisoner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-29 03:34:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15064226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNarcolepticOne/pseuds/TheNarcolepticOne
Summary: A story about mix body language, conversation openers about handcuffs and a man who just wants breakfast. And above all else, it irritates Oliver that he isn't sure which one of them is the real deal.





	You Could Call It a Bond

**Author's Note:**

> This is 4-year-old writing I tried to modify to my own modern writing style, and this is the best I can do to it without changing much of it. Editing old writing to fit newer writing is never easy, but it's better than keeping it in my drive forever. Hope it's okay.
> 
>  
> 
> _Based upon the story by O. Henry, Heart and Hands_

The distant hillsides alongside the view of the train was a continued stream of undulating green; sparse patches of various wildflowers of various colors decorating the field like sprinkles upon sweets. It was a scene that mimicked that of an undiscovered land, touched by nothing else but the hand of nature and her animals.

However, as soon as the train made another sharp turn, it didn’t take long to cut to something contrastingly manmade. Oliver’s gaze turned instead to the large, grey, and weathered building that was starting to come into view; a place that contained a heavy wall surrounding its perimeter. It was something that was so bland amid the colorful field surrounding it that perhaps even the birds avoided it.

Oliver knew the location by instinct. The Roswell Penitentiary. Or “The Pen” as was tended to be heard more often the closer anyone lived there. It is considered to be one of the most successful, unknown prisons in the world; a nonexistent hot spot that wasn’t ever allowed to be broadcast to the general public. 

It’s a kind of environment that wasn’t really anything new to Oliver either. He frequented many business trips that often stopped around this area and was familiar with the ‘hush hush’ kind of atmosphere wasn’t anything new to him. And even despite the tense air that often radiated around the crowds waiting for the train, Oliver honestly thought that the secrecy was relaxing in its own way. It’s because everyone used the “if it doesn’t involve you, you don’t get to talk about it” excuse. And if anyone decided to capitalize on that quote, the security storming the train stops would make it a very uncomfortable 3-hour ride.

Darkness suddenly obscured Oliver’s vision without warning; a tunnel that lets him see himself reflected upon the raindrop stained glass. Without much energy to think, he sighed and closed his eyes briefly, trying to collect himself. He leaned back in his chair, eventually choosing stare forward at the empty seats in front of him. 

He had missed breakfast today after unhappily deciding to dodge the outrageously long queue of people in front of the pastry shop outside the station. It was next to the even longer queue of a ticket line, and Oliver, in his morning exhaustion, chose his options logically rather than practically. The stunt had earned him a comfortable stop inside of the cabin, but it came with the cost of violent stomach groaning and a mild headache. And he only prayed that the food cars would open soon.

“Well, well. Someone’s hungry.”

Oliver didn’t turn his head to see who spoke, feeling himself instinctively grab his stomach. He was too hungry to really be embarrassed and really care in the first place.

“...what’s it to you?”

From the reflection on the glass, he saw two figures plop themselves into the empty seats in front of him. Exhaustedly, Oliver turned his gaze to meet them to try and be friendly. One laughed lightly at him, which Oliver easily identified as the voice who was heard earlier, while the other just rolled his eyes. And it was only in that moment that Oliver felt his energy somewhat restored by surprise.    
“... Allen?”

The man in question also had his eyes widen at the mention.

“... Oliver? Is that… ?” Allen’s smile widened as he then began to nudge his companion next to him, jabbing his thumb in Oliver’s general direction. “Hey Al, I know this guy!”

“Well ain’t that  _ obvious _ .”

The blonde haired man gave Allen a look of distaste before instantly fixing his expression to that of something entirely rehearsed and polite; a smile that was indecipherable to read, but friendly as he shook Oliver’s hand. Oliver tried back a smile. Weird.

“... call me Alfred. Alfred F. Jones. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ollie.”

Oliver tensed. “Yeah. Pleasure.”

“Look, now you’ve made him feel awkward. Good job, Mr. Extrovert.”

“Hey, I’m just tryin’ to be polite is all!”

“Listen,”

It wasn’t long before Oliver became the unannounced spectator amid the bickering. Sighing, Oliver fell back into his chair again. From their colorful vocabulary, Oliver guessed that they were perhaps some definition of friends; though he wasn’t quite sure how to classify how this relationship was supposed to stand out.

When they turned their attention back to Oliver, he smiled back at to hopefully conceal his thoughts and without warning, Alfred stuck his hand right out in front of him. Oliver shook it carefully, but as he went to go turn and shake his hand with Allen, he soon discovered the need to switch hands to shake with. And it took another a minute of staring before Oliver finally noticed the details.

The man named Alfred Jones was dressed in formal attire, indicative of someone quite wealthy, or at least well informed of the higher end markets of fashion. Next to him, Allen was wearing something less flashy; a simple brown leather jacket zipped up with a pair of used jeans and boots. More contrasts, Oliver noted. But at the same time, he then finally turned his attention to their wrists, which showed the men now handcuffed together. 

“... oh.”

Alfred, after flipping off Allen with his free hand, followed Oliver’s gaze when he saw him staring at the cuffs. 

“Hey, hey,” Alfred reassured. “Don’t sweat it. That’s there for safety reasons.”

“Safety?” Oliver’s anxiety elevated. “You two aren’t planning to go to the Pen, are you?”

“Unfortunately,” Allen said with a sigh. “One of us is.”

“What the hell do you mean one of us?” Jones snapped, suddenly stacking his annoyance to the other man handcuffed to him. “Stop tryin’ to be cryptic.”

“I’m not. I’m just keeping this on the down low. We can’t just tell everyone we’re going to the Pen.”

“Yeah, but you’re telling  _ Oliver. _ ”

“So?”

“So shut up.”   
“Shh!” interrupted Oliver finally. His brain was throbbing much worse with the noise, and in an attempt to shut them up himself, waved his hands frantically in front of them in order to get them to look in his direction. And before he said anything else, Oliver stood up and slammed the cabin doors. The last thing that he needed was someone walking in on them talking about something private.

“We’re not alone on this train, alright?” Oliver groaned. “I’m just going to guess that you’re both going to the Pen.  _ The _ Pen. I don’t want to be here if you’re just going to be galavanting around telling that to  _ everyone.” _

Allen blinked. “Everyone? Do you see me throwing announcements left and right about putting Jones in the Pen?”   
Alfred rolled his eyes. “He might as well be. The shit-eating grin he’s got on him is almost like a neon billboard sign. ‘Hey everyone! I’m taking a prisoner to the Pen today! Make sure you stop by and visit the gift shop on the way there’!”

“Alright, alright, Al. Can’t you stop the prisoner joke? It’s really getting annoying now.”

“What joke? Because last I checked, you’re not a clean slate yourself.”

“You can’t just  _ throw accusations like that without evidence you asshole.” _

“ _ Alright,”  _ Oliver interrupted, crossing his arms and shutting the two up when he raised his voice. “So. Since you guys can’t seem to agree, at least tell me this: what’s the crime even for?”

“Counterfeit,” said Alfred immediately, locking eyes with Allen. “Isn’t that right?”

“Hey, _hey,”_ complained Allen, expression hardening. “Stop throwing accusations. Just because I didn’t put a $20 in the donations box in church or something doesn’t mean that it carries on to something like _counterfeit._ ” 

Oliver frowned, even more confused. “So… then are you saying that Mister Jones is the one who’s supposed to go to jail?”

“Aww, don’t call me Mister Jones. That’s my dad’s name. Just call me Al.”

“Al,” corrected Oliver, leaning back against the door of the cabin. “So that means you’d be the one going to jail for counterfeit.”

Alfred put his free hand on his chest with dramatic eyebrow raises at Oliver. “NO! Why the  _ fuck _ \--”

“I told you so,” exclaimed Allen just afterward, half exasperated and half relieved. “You can’t just throw accusations without proof. And I bet that suit isn’t even real Versace.”

“ _ Shh. _ ” hushed Oliver again, glancing at the door to make sure no one was overhearing. Unfortunately enough, Oliver met the gaze of the old lady who had happened to be staring at their shouting match from behind the glass. Oliver gave a sheepish smile, patiently watching her leave before looking at the two again. He sat back down before holding his head. He felt like his hypoglycemia was his next enemy and he wasn’t even sure he had the energy to keep up knowing anything with conflicting information like this.

“Yo, bro. You doing okay?” Alfred asked after a minute of Oliver groaning. Oliver waved a hand dismissively. 

“Sorry, sorry. I just haven’t quite had breakfast yet, you see. I’ve not seen Allen since the U and right before I can even try and think of anything to say to that, I’m focusing even more on is deciding on which one of you is actually the police officer.”

Allen and Alfred gave each other a look, but not before Allen himself got up to stand, forcing Alfred with him. 

“Well. I suppose I should be the one to get you something for dropping this lowlife on you. Alfred? You coming?”   
“I’m coming, but it’s not because of you, you filthy crim.”

“Yeah yeah. Join the club.”

Oliver watched as the two of them opened the door quietly, stepping out and heading down the hallway towards the direction of the food car. And even though he wasn’t entirely certain if his stop was soon coming, he took a minute to step out of the comfortable cabin, leaving his coat conveniently on the chair as he went to follow the two to the bistro car. But the voices started to flow their way into Oliver’s hearing. 

“That’s a shame,” he heard a lady murmur. “They’re such eccentric young men too. I’m sad that the suited one will be turned in. He’s got a lot of potential, but maybe he’s invested it in all the wrong reasons.”

“The one in the suit? What makes you think he’s the criminal? He’s too well dressed to be one! Hell if I could even afford a suit like that for my  _ own _ son.”

“It’s the handcuffs dear. Have you ever heard of a policeman handcuffing a criminal to his right hand? No. And I’m not sure I’d trust him either, even if he is a bit of a looker.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

Oliver exhaled sharply, decidedly ignoring the conclusion after a few seconds of contemplation as he stepped into the bistro car.

**Author's Note:**

> _Posted June 26, 2018_


End file.
